Something I Need
by chosenpotter
Summary: In which Sherlock Holmes enters John Watson's life with a ' surprise , not dead ' , and John is left to readjust and pick up the pieces that were left behind.
1. o

John Watson's life ended with two words, and two words only. It wasn't anything that he'd ever expected that he'd have to endure, or hear coming from the other end of a phone. Sherlock Holmes had just told him that all the rumors and speculations were true, that he was a fraud. Of course John didn't believe it for one second, he knew this was what Moriarty wanted Sherlock to say. But this _couldn't_ be the end. Sherlock was brilliant, he could figure out a way to save himself.

That was what John thought, anyways.

"Goodbye, John."

"Sherlock, _don't-"_ John's fingers trembled around the sides of his mobile phone, squeezing the plastic so hard that his knuckles were quickly turning white. "No, _Sherlock!_ "

 _Keep your eyes fixed on me,_ Sherlock had said, but it was hard to do that as he watched his flatmate, his best friend, spread his arms wide and plunge forward off the roof of St. Bart's. John almost didn't believe his eyes for a moment, staggering forward in an almost drunken state, mouth open in shock. He didn't see the cyclist coming from behind him, and as a result, he went down hard when the impact came. His body hit the pavement with a resounding _smack,_ phone clattering to the ground.

It took John a minute or so to regain his bearings, blinking slowly as pain began to ebb, in rushes, through his head. He'd have a massive migraine after this was all over and done with, that was for sure, but for now, only one thing was on his mind. _Sherlock._ Scrambling to his feet as quick as he could in his current state, John ran to the group of people now gathered around the scene. The police sirens seemed like a mild thrum in the back of his mind, unnoticed and uncared for by the doctor trying to force his way past the crowd.

"I'm a doctor, let me come through. Let me come through, please." John desperately pleaded, pushing the investigators and such aside. "No, he's my friend. He's my friend. Please."

Nothing, absolutely _nothing,_ could've prepared John for the sight that lay before him. Sherlock, lifeless on the sidewalk, crimson red quickly spreading over the pavement from beneath dark curls. The impact of the bicyclist hitting him seemed to finally take effect, and John groaned as his legs gave out, although he was quick to get onto his knees. He took Sherlock's wrist in his hand, fingers searching for a pulse. _None._ He made a choking sound in his throat, his hand intertwining with Sherlock's icy one.

 _Sherlock Holmes was dead._

"Nggh, Jesus, no." John tried to stand, but his legs would not work. "God, no."

John watched, in mute horror, as Sherlock's body was put onto a gurney and wheeled away into the hospital, and that was when, at last, tears began to fall from John's eyes, hands resting on his knees as he drowned in his own sorrow. Just like that, Sherlock had been painfully torn from his life, from everyone's lives.

Nothing would ever be the same again.

The funeral was quiet, just himself and Mrs. Hudson. John found it hard to breathe as they stepped in front of the headstone, taking a shaking breath to prevent himself from breaking down. He had to stay strong.

"I . . . I'm angry." he said, his voice stiff as he disturbed the silence between them. "It was . . . cruel."

"It's okay, John. There's nothing unusual in that. That's the way he made _everyone_ feel." Mrs. Hudson sympathetically patted his arm. "All the marks on my table; and the noise – firing guns at half past one in the morning!"

"Mm, yeah." John nodded, his eyes shutting as she continued on.

"Bloody specimens in my fridge. Imagine – keeping bodies where there's food!" Mrs. Hudson's voice was breaking now, hands shaking. "And the fighting! Drove me up the wall with all his carryings-on!"

"Listen, I'm not actually that angry, alright?" John finally looked back over at Mrs. Hudson.

"Okay." Mrs. Hudson released her hand from his arm, blowing her nose into her handkerchief before she spoke once more. "I'll leave you alone to, erm . . . you know."

It was only after Mrs. Hudson walked away that John stepped ever closer to Sherlock's grave, a hand resting on top of the smooth black marble. He never imagined he'd have to see this day, to be here, experiencing this. The entire thing was rather horrible.

"You . . . you told me once that you weren't a hero." John began, his voice slow as he tried to pull himself together, to get his words in the right order. "There were times I didn't even think you were _human,_ but let me tell you this: you were the best man, and the most human . . . human being that I've ever known and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so . . . There."

John sniffed deeply, looking over his shoulder once before he looked back down at the grave.

"I was _so_ alone, and I owe you so much." his voice was tearful now as he took a step away from the grave. "Okay."

He only got as far as off the dirt before he turned back, hands stuffed in his pockets.

"No, please, there's just one more thing, mate, one more thing: one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't . . . be . . ." John's voice broke then, and his eyes filled with tears. " . . . dead. Would you do . . . ? Just for me, just stop it. Stop this."

A wordless gesture was made toward the grave before John finally walked away, dragging a hand over his face. It was time to move on. It was time to face reality.

Sherlock Holmes wasn't ever coming back.


	2. i

**_TWO YEARS LATER_**

"Well, Mrs. Tawney, it looks like your daughter's just fine. Just a mild bout of the flu, should clear itself up in a few days time." John Watson scratched out a prescription onto his pad, then tore it off and handed it to the woman sitting on the other side of his desk. "But, do give her this medicine, it'll help to speed up the process."

"Oh, thank you, Doctor Watson." Mrs. Tawney said with a smile, gesturing to her daughter, young Annie, to come over to her side from the examination table. "Thank goodness, it's been going around at her school, but I just wanted to make sure."

"Better safe than sorry, that's what I always say." John said with a smile, then pulled out a lollipop from one of his desk drawers, handing it over to the young girl, who accepted it with a grin. "Drink lots of fluids, Annie, and don't forget to wash your hands. Wouldn't want to pass it onto your mum, yeah?"

"Yessir!" Annie chirped in response, saluting him as she unwrapped the sweet and stuck it into her mouth. "C'mon, Mummy, Doctor Watson says I'm fine!"

"Yes, dear." Mrs. Tawney gave a tired chuckle in response, shaking her head as she was tugged to her feet by her eager daughter. "Have a good day, Doctor Watson."

"You too." John bid her goodbye, then sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair before he got to his feet and began to clean up his workspace.

That had been his last appointment for the day, luckily, and now it was time to head back to the mundaneness of Baker Street. Working at a doctor's office and diagnosing other people's problems helped him to forget his own, although he was always painstakingly reminded of what he had to go home to at the end of the day. It had been two years, _two years,_ since his best friend had committed suicide, and John had never completely gotten over it, no matter what he told everyone else. He had considered moving out of 221B, considering all the memories it held, but he just couldn't. Baker Street was his home.

A breath hitched in John's throat as he stumbled upon a picture frame, shoved deeply away where he wouldn't have to see it. He and Sherlock had been taking pictures for the newspaper the day it was taken, and whilst John smiled, Sherlock wore an extremely serious expression. The detective was never really a fan of all the newfound fame, and it showed. Although, once the newspeople had turned off their cameras, Sherlock had leaned down to John's ear and whispered a deduction about the cameraman, to which John had laughed heartily. Lestrade had managed to snap a photo of the moment when they both weren't looking, and sent it to John, who had gotten it framed and kept it in his office. The pair of them were both smiling and laughing, and while back then it had been a good memory, now it was just a painful reminder of what had been.

The doctor sighed and shoved the photo back in place, slamming the drawer shut as he grabbed his jacket and headed for the door, locking the office behind him. The woman at the desk said goodbye to him, like always, and he merely gave a nod in her direction, like always. A familiar routine, which he always stuck to. Today was a Tuesday, which meant it was time to go buy groceries at Tesco so the fridge and pantry weren't bare. He kept his shoulders hunched and head down as he walked, the sidewalk quite busy at this time of day, as it always was. Tesco was only a short walk from here, and from there, a short walk back to the flat.

Upon reaching Tesco, John took out that week's list of groceries from his pocket, scanning over it before he gave an affirming nod, taking a cart and pushing it into the store. The music in here was always far too cheery for his opinion, but he was focused on his shopping, and nothing else. He didn't use the self checkout once he was done, instead going to the manual checkout lanes and making small talk with the cashier as he fumbled for his wallet in his pocket. Everything seemed to remind him of Sherlock, especially the chip-and-pin machine, but he swiped his card and went on his way.

John's feet were starting to ache once he'd arrived at the familiar door of 221B, and he was grateful to be back home. His limp had become more pronounced since Sherlock's death, but he was stubborn, and refused to use a cane. _I don't need it,_ he kept telling himself. He was fine, and he could manage. He reached into his pocket for his keys, unlocking the door with a bit of difficulty, since his arms were both weighed down with grocery bags. He shouted a hello to Mrs. Hudson, never rude, before he made his trek up the stairs.

But something was wrong.

The first thing that threw John off was the door to the flat being open. He usually shut it before he left for work, and it was always that way when he got home. Maybe Mrs. Hudson was getting a late start with the usual dusting she did, although that seemed unlikely. Had someone broken in? Well, John certainly wasn't afraid to defend himself. But then, as his hearing adjusted to the quietness of the building, that was when he heard _it._

The sound of a violin lovingly being played.

John blinked rapidly. He refused to listen to violins, or any song remotely containing a violin. It brought back too many hazy nights and boring days in 221B, where Sherlock would play his violin and compose, and John would sit in his armchair to listen. He loved Sherlock's violin playing, absolutely adored it, and it was something that he missed a lot. But this violin sounded like it was being played live, like it wasn't a recording at all. John was almost afraid to step into the flat, but he did so anyways, his breathing shaky.

The sight before him took his breath away entirely, grocery bags dropping to the floor with a loud clatter. The flat was clean, thanks to Mrs. Hudson, but that wasn't the thing that had captured his attention. There was a tall figure at the window, a violin cradled in his arms, bow moving rhythmically and smoothly across the string. The figure wore a pair of flannel pajama bottoms and a blue house robe, and his hair was dark and curly.

 _No, this has to be some cruel joke,_ John thought to himself. There was no way in _hell_ that he was seeing what he was seeing at the current moment in time. Sherlock had been dead for two years, and John had seen the body at the bottom of the fall, so this was certainly some hallucination John had somehow managed to conjure up, or some lookalike trying to mess with him.

The man seemed startled by the loud noise of the grocery bags hitting the floor, the violin abruptly stopping as he turned around. John's heart immediately sped up as a smile slowly stretched across those familiar cupid bow lips, excitement lighting up those familiar blue-grey eyes. Those cheekbones, those thin fingers, John knew them all too well. Everything about this man, as he strode across the sitting room toward John, seemed so surreal.

"John. Welcome home." Even the voice of this man, a deep silken sound, was oh-so familiar, a noise that played over and over in John's head, a melody John had thought he'd heard for the final time.

"Sh-"

And that was all it took for John Watson to faint on the floor of 221B.

When John came to, he was laid neatly on the sofa in the sitting room, covered with a throw blanket and feeling quite dazed. The last thing he remembered was seeing . . . Sherlock. No, that couldn't be possible, Sherlock was _dead._ John must have been hallucinating, and then he'd fainted. But how on earth had he gotten to the sofa? He didn't think Mrs. Hudson was strong enough to carry him.

"Ah. You're awake, good."

John's heart just about stopped when he heard _that voice,_ his head turning so quickly to his right that he twisted his neck, wincing as he rubbed at the sore spot. Perhaps he was still dreaming, as Sherlock was sitting in his armchair, still dressed in his house robe and pajama pants, his brow furrowed in concern.

"Am I . . . am I dead, somehow?" John weakly asked, struggling to sit up.

Sherlock laughed as he rose to his feet, striding over to John and taking his hand in a strong grip, pulling him up to a sitting position. "If this were heaven, I certainly wouldn't be there. I'm hardly an angel. Far from it, actually."

John's breath stuttered in his throat, his hand moving up Sherlock's arm, underneath the fabric of his sleeve. He then pinched the detective's skin, hard, and Sherlock edged away from him, his nose scrunching in confusion.

"Just checking." John muttered to himself.

Sherlock felt surprisingly solid, more solid than a pure apparition should be. John's eyes scanned over Sherlock's figure once more, who looked like he wanted to step closer, but also didn't want to get poked and prodded again. If this wasn't just a figment of John's imagination, that meant . . .

"Oh, god. Oh, _Jesus."_ John felt like he was going to pass out again, and he mutely felt Sherlock's hand clamp to his shoulder to steady him. "You . . . you're . . ."

"Yes, John, I'm alive." Sherlock said, crouching so he could get to John's eye level, a small smile twitching at his mouth. "I'm glad you finally came to that realiza-"

 _Smack!_ John slapped Sherlock in the face, _hard,_ and Sherlock fell backward out of a sort of shock, his eyes going wide as his hand raised to touch the quickly reddening spot. John was on his feet now, hands firmly clenched at his sides as his chest heaved with heavy breathing.

"What the _fuck,_ Sherlock?!" John snarled, and Sherlock watched in silent wonder. John hardly ever cursed so vulgarly, only when he was extremely upset. "You let me think you were dead for two years, two yea- I bet you heard everything I said at your funeral, didn't you? And you just had a great bloody laugh to yourself! How could you _do_ this to me?"

"John, I can explain, alright?" Sherlock got to his feet, although he didn't back away from John, merely stepping closer. "Just calm down. I had my reasons why I couldn't show my face right away, I really did, and they were important. You have no idea how much I wanted to come back here, how Mycroft tortured me with the video footage of you in here, around London, whenever I was in the country. I'm sorry."

Sherlock had just apologized, a rarity for the detective to do. He normally just spoke his mind, not really realizing how rude the facts could really be. But he was telling John he was sorry, and somehow, that mollified John just the smallest bit.

"Fine. _Fine._ Okay, we'll talk. I'm going to put the kettle on for tea." John said, trying to keep his voice steady before whirling off into the kitchen.

It was going to be a _long_ evening.


	3. ii

John's heart felt like it was going to pound right out of his chest, taking deep breaths through his nose in an attempt to calm his already-jittery nerves. His hands shook as he took the kettle from the cupboard, setting it on the stovetop before pouring in some water to let boil. He could practically _feel_ Sherlock's pale-eyed gaze upon his back, although he did not acknowledge it, pretending that this was normal, although it was anything but.

There was the sound of fabric shifting from behind him, and the sound of a wooden chair screeching outward from the kitchen table closely following it. Sherlock was most likely settling at the table instead, though for what reason, John didn't know. The piercing whistle of the kettle brought John back to the present time, and he was quick to pour out two mugs of tea, carrying them over to the table and setting them down with a clunk. The sugar bowl was set down as well, in case either of them wanted to add some to their tea.

After settling down in the chair across from Sherlock, John sighed, folding his hands together on the tabletop. Sherlock mirrored his position, almost, hands steepled underneath his chin. They both expected each other to speak first, and that was quickly going to become a problem.

"There were thirteen scenarios in place, when I went up onto that rooftop." Sherlock began, his voice slow at first. "Each had a specific codeword, and teams were in place for every single one of them. I knew that Moriarty wanted me to die, to finish off his story, so I planned and I predicted. Him killing himself was definitely a setback, but-"

John put a hand up, effectively interrupting him midsentence.

"Shut up, Sherlock, alright? Just . . . shut up." he said, clenching his teeth together for a moment. "I don't care about how you did it, alright? I don't, I _really_ don't. What I want to know is . . . how could you do that to me? You flung yourself off St. Bart's, I _saw_ you, and you pretended to be dead for _two years_. I grieved. I _cried._ So many other people did, too, because we thought we'd lost you forever. And now here you are, right back in my life like you never even left it. How exactly did you think our reunion was going to go, Sherlock? Did you honestly believe I was just going to pretend it was alright, like I didn't drown myself in sorrow? You're a right _arsehole,_ that's what."

John hadn't realized how choked up he was actually getting, now on the brink of tears by the time he'd finished speaking. Whatever shoddy excuse Sherlock was going to come up with, whether it be that _'I had to save the world, John'_ , or _'You wouldn't understand, John, it was for the greater good',_ John wouldn't care. Sherlock had still hurt him, he'd still driven him so far off the edge for a few months that he did nothing but stay in the flat and drink himself to sleep. Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes had carved himself a place within John's heart, nestled himself there, forced himself to fit, and it'd been a gaping wound after Sherlock had taken his fall. It had torn John apart, and he'd just been putting himself back together again when _this_ happened.

Sherlock was just sitting there, saying nothing at all, and John had every notion to tip the scalding-hot tea over that stupid head of his and-

"I'm sorry." Sherlock was apologizing, again, and John's violent train of thought came to a screeching halt. "I know, John. Things aren't the same between us as they were before, they probably won't be ever again, and I'm accepting that. If you want me out of your life, that's fine. I would understand. I would have told you, you know, if I had the choice. But my brother was very secretive about the whole thing, he didn't want you knowing. Or anyone close to me, for that matter."

"Mycroft _knew?_ He knew about you being not-dead? How many other people knew, Sherlock?" John demanded. "And don't lie to me, I'll know."

"My brother, my parents, Molly Hooper, and a select few of the homeless network." Sherlock replied, looking thoroughly put-out by that point. "But you had to believe I was dead, John. You absolutely had to. Moriarty had a sniper trained on you, and he would've killed you unless you saw me jump and you believed I had died. I couldn't- I _wouldn't_ watch you die."

"What about afterward, Sherlock? What about then, when it was hours after, and I was safe?" John sounded extremely hurt, which he most certainly was. "You could've contacted me."

"I wasn't allowed to." Sherlock looked guilty. "Once again, John, I do apologize for what I put you through. You want me out, just say the word. I'll go. You won't hear from me again."

"No." the answer came so quick that John hardly realized he'd said it in the first place. " _No,_ I'm not booting you from my life, alright? Even though I'm certainly going to be cross with you for a long while, I'm not just going to let you walk out of my life all over again. That'd be really stupid of me, and- y'know, Sherlock, at your funeral, I said a few things at your grave. But there was one thing that I asked you for, one thing that I really wanted. I asked you for one more miracle. I asked you to stop being dead. And here you are."

"Here I am." Sherlock repeated, although a sad smile appeared on his face. "I know, John. I was there. I heard you."

John almost laughed, but refrained, crossing his arms as he looked up at the ceiling. Sherlock had actually been there, lurking in the trees, listening to everything John had been saying to his grave. How utterly . . . Sherlock Holmes. He took a sip of tea, which had cooled a bit by now, and sighed.

"Alright. So, I'm going to go put away the groceries that you caused me to spill all over the floor, and you . . . do something with yourself, I don't care what." John got up from his chair, stretching his arms upward before heading over to the entrance of the flat, getting to work on picking up the food he'd dropped.

He heard Sherlock get up from the table, and a few minutes later, the sound of violin began to once more flow through the flat. John smiled to himself, shaking his head. He was still in shock, of course he was, and it'd be hours still until he recovered fully, maybe even days or weeks. But Sherlock was here, _really_ here, and it seemed that months, years, of doubt had finally been put to rest.

In the days after Sherlock's death, John had convinced himself fully that Sherlock would come strolling into 221B, alive, and it would be like nothing had happened at all. But as the weeks had dragged on, his hopes had been drowned in sorrow, and he'd given up on the chance of ever seeing Sherlock again. But yet, it seemed that miracles really could happen.

Peace, at last.

* * *

Sherlock was dead, and John could see it. Pushing past the people crowded around the detective's body, his mouth dropped open in horror, his heart almost coming to a stop. Blood stained the sidewalk around Sherlock's curly-haired head, his limbs at all odd angles, and as John crouched to press his fingers to the inside of Sherlock's wrist, there was no pulse. Sherlock really was dead, there was no coming back this time, and John's heart began to ache.

John was in the flat, walking down the hallway to Sherlock's room, calling out the detective's name. But as he pushed the door to Sherlock's bedroom open, the sight that greeted him nearly caused him to faint in shock. Sherlock, suspended from the ceiling by his own scarf, his body lifelessly twisting back and forth in the scarf's hold. Oh, _god._

John awoke with a hoarse scream, his legs twisted within the confines of his bedsheets, his chest heaving as he panted. It took a minute to calm himself down, to remind himself of his surroundings, to convince himself that everything was alright. He was in his bed, in his bedroom, in the flat on Baker Street. John exhaled heavily, sitting up and running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. His nightmares had taken that form for months, forced to see Sherlock dying over and over again, but they hadn't been that fully terrifying since the first few weeks after Sherlock's suicide.

John squinted at the clock on his bedside table, trying to determine exactly what time that it happened to be. _3:21 AM._ He'd gone to bed at around eleven, exhausted both physically and emotionally from that day's events. Sherlock had paid mild attention to the late night shows on the telly, though he'd mostly been involved in scrolling through the news on his laptop, trying to catch up on everything and check to see if anything new had happened. They'd ended up getting takeaway for dinner, with John going out to fetch it, and spent the night in companionable silence. Just like old times.

John's door began to creak open at that very moment, and John scrambled for some sort of weapon. His gun, _where_ was his gun? But as the door opened completely, John stopped in his frantic scrambling. Sherlock's tall figure stood in the doorway, his face eclipsed into shadow by the darkness of the landing.

"John?" he asked, his voice quiet yet curious. "I heard you screaming from downstairs, were you having night terrors?"

"Mm? Oh, yeah, but it's nothing. I'm alright now." John said shakily, and perhaps if he said it enough, he would believe it. "I thought you'd be asleep by now, you must've had a long journey back here from . . . wherever it was that you've been hiding for the past two years."

"My bedroom's filled with boxes, I didn't really feel like cleaning it out tonight." Sherlock's shoulders lifted in a shrug. "I've been in the sitting room on the sofa, but even considering that I've been sleeping on more uncomfortable things the past few months, I couldn't really . . . but forget that. I was just seeing to that you were alright."

"Fine. Perfectly fine." Since when did Sherlock even care? But considering Sherlock hadn't cared to leave his company today, even complaining at the suggestion of John going out to fetch the Chinese, perhaps he just wanted some familiar faces after being away for so long. "If you want, you can sleep in here tonight. I think I've got a pump-up mattress. Or, you could take it out to the sitting room, if you wanted to."

"I think I'll sleep in here. You've experienced these night terrors before, and you tend to not go back to sleep afterwards, instead going out to the kitchen and drinking a few cups of coffee before staying up until your shift at the clinic starts." Sherlock said, matter-of-factly. "And considering you need to be well-rested in order to treat patients, it might be better if you have someone else's presence with you."

"I'm not going to even _ask_ how you know I do all that, even though you've been away for the duration of them happening, but alright. Let me just lug it out of the closet." John swung his legs over the side of the bed and shuffled over to his closet, opening it and taking out the box that contained the blow-up mattress. He plugged the pump into the wall and began to inflate it, unplugging it once he was done.

Sherlock, in that time span, had gone to his bedroom and brought back his sheets and his duvet, and he silently handed them to John to put onto the mattress. John rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he kneeled to set up the bed. _Really,_ Sherlock couldn't even do it for himself? Nothing had changed, he was glad to observe. Once done, John settled back into his bed, listening to the sounds of Sherlock thrashing about on the mattress until he was comfortable. He couldn't see Sherlock, not in the darkness of the bedroom, but the mere knowing that he was there soothed John, just the tiniest bit.

"Goodnight, John." came Sherlock's voice from somewhere to his right.

"Goodnight, Sherlock." John replied, before rolling onto his side so he could get more comfortable, falling into a deep sleep a few minutes later.

When John awoke the next morning, Sherlock was not there.


End file.
